


There's No Crying In Killing

by insanechayne



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Connor's a little off his rocker, Gen, Post BDS 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanechayne/pseuds/insanechayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy's gone, and Connor must carry on the legacy. But Murphy hasn't left him completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Crying In Killing

**Author's Note:**

> So I was watching Boondock Saints 2 for probably the 6th time, and this idea occurred to me. I wanted to write something kind of sad, but kind of sweet, too, so here we are.   
> This idea is also in part my dad's fault. Once upon a time he said "there's no crying in killing" because he thought it was an actual line in the movie; when I told him that that was no where in the movie he said "well, it should be." And because I actually agree with that I decided to do him justice and write this fic based on his self-created line. Will I ever let him read this? Probably not. But at least he's getting a mention, whether he knows it or not. 
> 
> For all intents and purposes Murphy and Romeo are both dead. I didn't want to take the time to figure out all the hows and whys of their deaths, so there's no real explanation on that front. But they are quite dead, and Connor is on his own now. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

_There’s no cryin’ in killin’, Conn. You know that. Man up an’ give ‘em what fer._

The sweet voice resounds inside his head as if the words were spoken right into his ear, and for half a heartbeat he truly believes that its owner is right there beside him, just like he’s supposed to be. A quick glance to his right, though, shatters that illusion, and confirms that he has, in fact, gone a little bit crazy.

_No one needs another Romeo, gettin’ all emotional over the smallest shit. ‘Member how he used to cry over such stupid things? You don’t wanna be like that, do ye, Conn? Yer strong, stronger ‘n all that emotional bullshit. Remember what Rocco said: “Men do not cry, men do not pout. Men jack you in the jaw and say, ‘thanks for comin’ out.’” Time for you to jack someone in the jaw._

Connor steels his resolve, grits his teeth, and takes a deep breath. The air fills his lungs, but he feels no relief from the suffocating ache still in his chest. He breathes because he has to, because he must keep going and continue their legacy, not because he wants to. If it were up to him, he’d probably never breathe again; he’d probably just take to the earth like Murphy did. But he has no choice in this matter, because God is still driving him on, pushing him to keep going, and so he does.

_Almost time now, Connor. Make us proud._

That sweet voice in his head belongs to Murphy, and he knows that Murphy says “us” in reference to himself, Romeo, Da, Greenly, Rocco, and the good Lord himself. And he will make them proud, all of them, because he is still just as good at what he does as he was when Murphy was beside him.

In fact, he seems to have gotten stronger, more lethal, now that Murphy’s gone, as if the Lord had to double the force in him to make up for the one now lost. He’s done a dozen jobs, maybe more, and has never gotten so much as a bruise; he should have been dead quite a few times over by now, but still he lives and walks and breathes and kills.

_Hope you got your stupid fuckin’ rope, brother, since it always happens to be a very useful thing._

Murphy’s voice has taken on a mocking tone, and Connor can’t help but smirk slightly at the playfulness there. Even in the grave Murphy teases him, and for some reason that’s exactly what he needs right now; it’s something to ease the pain and relieve the gravity of the situation, and he feels a certain sort of warmth spread throughout his chest as those words work their magic.

He does have the rope, too; it’s wrapped around his right shoulder, keeping his left hand, his better shooting hand, free to really nail all the targets and drive the bullets home. He always has the rope, even if he thinks it’s going to weigh him down; he doesn’t always need it, but it’s nice to always have it there.

_Is this plan from some stupid shit ye saw in a movie, too?_

“Of course it fuckin’ is.” He mutters under his breath, his smirk getting just a little bit wider, a little bit more genuine.

This plan comes from the movie Punisher: War Zone, in which Frank Castle loads himself with guns, ammo, knives, and maybe a grenade or two, leaps through a boarded up window into the building where the bad guys are waiting for him, and kills everyone in there with his superior skills. And hey, it worked like a charm for him.

It’s not much of a plan for Connor, though, since he’s liable to get himself killed by just waltzing on in there, guns ablaze. But maybe that’s what he wants now.

_I fuckin’ knew._

“You always do, my dear brother.”

Connor knows it is crazy to talk to himself this way, but there’s no one around, and even if there were they’d know better than to say a word about it. And even if the enemy could hear him he doesn’t think he’d really mind them figuring out his position and shooting at him. He wants them to fight back, wants them to aim and squeeze their triggers with accuracy; it’s no fun taking them out if they don’t at least try to live first.

And in the back of his mind he realizes that he really does want the bullets to hit him. He wants more than anything to be filled with lead, blood gushing from his wounds, falling to the floor, dead. Because he wants more than anything to see Murphy again.

Murphy is the only one he cares about, if he’s being honest with himself. Sure he loved and cared about the rest, but Murphy was the one and only person he’d been with his whole life, the one and only person who knew him inside and out. Murphy was his twin, his brother, his other half, and without Murphy beside him, he wasn’t really as balanced as he’d been before. Not as sane, certainly.

And though he misses Romeo, Da, Greenly, and Rocco dearly he has already started to forget the way their faces looked, the expressions they wore most often, and the way their individual laughs sounded.

But it’s not that way with Murphy. He can still see Murphy’s face in perfect clarity, and maybe that has something to do with the wallet-sized picture of the man that he looks at every day, several times a day, but Connor thinks that maybe it’s just because he was so close to Murphy. A picture can’t play back someone’s laughter, and it certainly can’t put their voice in your head with perfect pitch and tenor.

Connor takes one last deep breath, and lets his words ghost out with his exhale. “You ready for this shit, my dear brother?”

_Let’s do some gratuitous violence._

~ ~ ~

Connor stands in the middle of a spacious room, bodies lying every which way on the floor, blood splattered over every visible surface. He doesn’t know how many men he has just killed, has no energy left in him to try and count them, though he does hope that he brought enough pennies for all of them.

He holsters his guns and raises his arm out to show his full wingspan, and then he begins to recite the prayer.

“And shepherds we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomeni patri et fili, et spiritus sancti.”

It feels odd to be hearing only his own voice reverberating back to him, rather than the mingle of his and Murphy’s speaking as one. He doubts he will ever get used to that. It also feels odd to still be saying “we” during the prayer, since there is no “we” anymore, only him; but he won’t dare change it, because that would mean resigning to Murphy’s death, and that’s not something he will ever be prepared to do.

As he goes around placing pennies over the eyes of the dead he takes account of his own body. He is sore, and his hands are a little numb from having fired his guns so many times in succession, but once again he remains unscathed. He should have been dead this time, too, or at the very least very gravely injured, but he is completely fine.

He marvels over this impossibility, and wonders what God could possibly be keeping him around for. This line of work will never truly be done, and to have to live without Murphy is a living Hell. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He wants to be in Heaven with his loved ones.

But God does have plans for him, and he won’t question the Almighty’s judgment.

However, as the last pennies are placed on the last corpse’s eyes, he finds himself crying. Tears course down his cheeks, tracking twin waterfalls through the blood, sweat, and gunpowder staining them, and again he wishes that God would just let him die.

Connor looks to the heavens, his eyes wide and watery and full of sorrow, and whispers a prayer that he knows barely makes it to the ceiling. “I hate this life I’m forced to live. I’ve got nothing more to give. Take it away, I don’t want it anymore.”

More tears follow his words, and he ducks his head so far down it nearly hits his chest. His sobs are silent, but they still wrack through his body, each one a new heart-shattering earthquake.

_Come on, Connor. Ye gotta be strong. There’s no crying in killing._


End file.
